Here are the poems received during October…
The bonfire pile
Bonfire time, you know the drill.
Gather some sticks, make a big hill.
Fetch me some wood, we hear the cry,
Pile on the lumber, let it grow high.
Add to it daily and it becomes large,
Bring on the kids, no one’s in charge.
But on the night, before you light kindling,
Consider below and what might be lingering.
Stick a stick underneath and give it a wiggle,
Jaggle the heap, disrupt the piggle.
Make sure you wake any sleeping beast,
Give them a chance to escape at the least.
Maybe a hedgehog, maybe a newt,
Scurry our friends, ever so cute.
Make sure the creatures make it away,
THEN release the flames, enjoy the display.
– M. Fish
Bright foxgloves spear and
Frame the lace-white sea.
Below, pink thrift and cream bladder campion clumps
Ruffle in the breath and blow.
Then, far out,
The sea-bound patched tugboats take flight.
On salt-stiff sooty flipper wings they come,
Arc and tilt above
Black-gaitered coral rudder-feet.
Twin sails, they swing and yield,
Controlling the glide in
A shake of the tiller-tail and, turning,
show the silhouette of shade and shimmer,
White on soft black
Blue and yellow bar-beak
All sharp curves.
Then, duck and down
below the grass.
Gone in a whisper on the wind.
– Jo Crouch
In praise of the scullion
“Where is my scullion” cried the cook
As in cupboard and pantry she looked
“Twas here this morning” she went on shouting
“If it don’t come back I’ll keep pouting
In order to prepare the evening repast
She needed the thing real fast
With much ranting and raving, wailing and shouting
Thrown in for good measure some banging and clouting
Now, a scullion is no mere contraption
With blade or handle or spike
But a culinary artist with flair and adaption
And check trousers, tall hat and the like.
But a scullion has to rest to be at his best
To cope with the demands on his talent
So down he had laid after a cake he had made
And a note to say that Cook was A Tyrant
– Corvus Wood
Preparing for Moths in Quarry Wood—Saturday 28/10/17
The trap is set and we await
To find what comes to our lightbulb bait.
Will there be Ermine or a Yellow Underwing?
Open the lid to see what is sleeping.
Moths, they’re a source of constant discovery,
Snoozing on egg boxes for gentle recovery.
Here’s to the hope for a moth filled night,
Here’s to a Sunday of lepidoptery delight.
– M. Fish
Moth Spotting—Sunday 29/10/17
Seven moths seen, the trap near empty.
One was missing, we’d drawn the short straw.
But what was that after, atop the Ivy?
Nothing less than a glorious Merveille du Jour.
Speckled green, a beautiful pattern,
Wings without a flaw.
We were lucky today, it was our turn,
To see the stunning Merveille du Jour.
– Paul Johnson
What is a Poem?
Lorna said that I have to write a Poem.
What is a poem?
Does it have to rhyme?
Does it have to sing?
How many lines?
How many verses?
What is a stanza?
Or does that belong to a different verse?
Is it a question?
Is it a statement?
A letter or essay?
Who says what?
Is this a poem? maybe not.
– Chris Hamson
Clocks change, now’s the time
Early walks, sunrise sublime.
Low mist, first frost chime.
Autumn sunset haiku
Red disc slowly drops,
Hits treeline at horizon,
Skeletal black pink.
Full moon haiku
White disc rising high,
Glowing and luminescent,
Prequel for the ghosts.
– C. King
|November 2017 poems||September 2017 poems